


Keep Predicting The End of The World and Eventually You'll Be Right

by completetheory



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Abusive Father (Mentioned), Gen, Manipulation, Medical Restraints, Mind Control, Nonbinary Character, Sadly not in the sexy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: Jan Pieterzoon, a gifted maverick, is what some in the industry call 'a go getter'. Except the industry is the Camarilla, and there's still some difficulty reconciling how to handle doomsday scenarios down party lines. You'd think they'd be grateful, wouldn't you?
Comments: 14
Kudos: 6





	Keep Predicting The End of The World and Eventually You'll Be Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).



> Some liberties are taken with the Gehenna material, as with all things.

The ground erupted, tarmac splitting like a lanced wound and spilling out thousands of writhing tentacles. From above, the sky lit with Aldebaran fire, siphoning the undead vitality of the children of Caine. A ring of red terror. 

Often, humans would run toward a disaster to help their fallen. Jan Pieterzoon was young by Kindred standards, but old enough to have been impressed by this phenomenon several times. The ‘bystander effect’ was one of those old canards, and ever since the mixed blessing of video recordings, didn’t hold much water. 

Here, though, there was nowhere to run to - no centralized enemy to fight. Water mains burst, cars were flipped and then dragged down into the abyss, and Jan felt their chest drop similarly. A sinkhole? Fracking? The old Masquerade habit. Jan heard themself laughing, even as their limbs obeyed a command to step back and start running. Running and laughing, colliding with a bus stop sign and swinging around again to face the monster because the end of the street was nigh and the monster was under the entire length of it, and the end of the world was--

 _Thoom._

It vibrated underneath, thunderous, power like a pulse, a hideous writhing entity all in concert with itself. A majestic tentacle caught Jan up with one effortless sweep to throw them into the nearby brick wall. 

_Thoom!_

Fortitude barely maintained Jan’s bones, where brick ceded to the force and the wall fell inward, the _world_ fell inward. Aldebaran diluted their powers? Some ritual of the Sabbat to disembowel the Camarilla, so that they alone could ‘take the glory’ of destroying their genocidal elders? 

_Thoom!_

That infuriating sound was like the heartbeat heard in the waters of the womb. Like an endoscope as witness to the spasms of the organs, like being devoured whole by Chronos - .... No, _Cronus._ Chronos was Father Time, Cronus was the child-eating Titan. Still, Jan thought, scrabbling for a fire extinguisher on the wall to repel the questing tentacle, still, wasn’t it the same thing, in the end? Consumed by time? Consumed by the Father, whoever he was? Consumed by the lack of love and compassion and leadership in this inherently Godless world, where ‘Damned’ just meant ‘abandoned’? 

Would anything so terrible matter, if they knew there was love, somewhere? 

_But this isn’t how it **happened.**_

The tentacle at least disliked the fire extinguisher. Baby steps. The Camarilla would have to be informed. Somehow. If Jan could get clear, and page Calebros--

But this thing was in the sewers proper. How did the Nosferatu not know about it already? 

_This isn’t. Right._

“It’s not working.” 

Jan heard that voice from outside, though there was no one alive in the building or the street to have voiced it. 

They called, “Caine?” 

Obfuscated? Would Jan’s last memory, as the tentacles swarmed and gathered around their waist, be of a false father figure - only the latest in a long line of disappointments for Jan, though their Sire had never disappointed - or would it be--

Cyscek?

“Hold on. Back up.” 

The ground erupted, tarmac splitting--

No. 

Jan Pieterzoon opened their eyes and the world was horizontal, and there was a table under them with tangible restraints, and they felt relief. Good. This was an experimentation of some kind, a Tzimisce torture chamber. They had the grip of reality, this was something they could _handle._

‘Good, I’m only being tortured’ was fairly classic Pieterzoon. Fairly classic Ventrue, honestly. How the clan of Kings did suffer.

“Mx. Pieterzoon. You’re awake.” The Kindred standing before them was at least a known entity.

“Dr. Netchurch.” Jan greeted, as if meeting him outside an elevator or in a public park. “To what do I owe the...” They tested the restraints to indicate that it could not well be called a pleasure.

Dr. Netchurch tsked. “Such a short memory. Actually, memory is exactly what we’re probing. We’re trying to find out - for the sake of the Camarilla - what exactly happened the night you disappeared in Manhattan two weeks ago.” 

“Ah, well, if it is for the sake of the Camarilla I shouldn’t dream of refusing, but my dear doctor, did you consider you could ...ask me?” 

Jan looked earnestly up into Netchurch’s face. Their captor looked somewhat taken aback by the suggestion.

“I - could do.” He admitted. “But what would be the proof against your lying to us?” 

Jan looked around for ‘us’, seeing only the good Doctor, but there was a mirrored wall and they knew better than to stop and admire the haggard, but attractive and angelic young reflection they saw there. Probably a small group, and a group that meant well. The better not to insult them, then. 

“What would be my incentive to lie?” They returned, patiently. “I have always served the Camarilla faithfully. I am Ventrue. It is what we do.” 

“Ah... Hm.” Netchurch made some notes on the clipboard. “What did happen?” 

Jan inhaled. It was a good feeling to inhale. Not only did it keep the kine off them when interfacing, but it reminded them of smoking, which was equally soothing. They could go for a cigarette, but they knew it would be somewhat harder to smoke it in these conditions. 

“I met a Tzimisce Methuselah and we entered the sewers to kill the Eldest, the Tzimisce Antediluvian.” Jan said. 

Dr. Netchurch made a few more notes. “What was the Tzimisce’s name?”

“I’m not at liberty to incriminate him.”

Jan’s current physician looked up sharply. “I can make you tell me.” 

“You did seem to be trying, before,” Jan was gentle, as if not wishing to hurt Netchurch's feelings, “But it isn’t necessary. He won’t corroborate. So his name doesn’t matter.” 

A few small pen clicks. “What happened with this ‘Antediluvian’?” 

“We killed them. Sort of. They’re difficult to send to Final Death. I think perhaps we wounded them so badly that they went into torpor. But from what I understand, it will take some time for their recovery, so at the very least, we’ve bought ourselves a few decades.”

Dr. Netchurch raised his eyebrows. “You are a young Elder.”

“That’s correct.” 

“How did you survive, working with a Tzimisce, fighting an ancient Kindred? Are you sure this isn’t a fantasy? Some kind of substitution for some other experience you had, one that was too traumatic to remember?”

Jan smiled. “I’m not in the habit of repressing memories, Doctor. You can be quite sure if you were rooting around in there. Can’t you?” 

Dr. Netchurch nibbled on the pen. “I suppose. Understand my position--”

“Oh, I do. I very much do.” Jan tried not to look too obviously at the mirror, but thought it fair to include the parties behind, “The Inner Circle’s stability rests upon accurate information delivered in a timely manner. I will certainly cooperate if you wish to delve further.”

A ship of the line. A cold, cutting wind. A father’s voice, and a father’s strength turned against his child. These were all things Jan knew intimately, from life, from the harsh and pre-technological days of their Embrace.

“Why did the Tzimisce help you?” Netchurch asked.

“Because we share a common goal.” Jan was soft, “We want to protect Kindred, and kine, and preserve the experiment of sentient life on Earth for as long as possible.” 

“Could you show me where this battle took place?”

“Possibly, the general area. But I don’t think it would do much good.” Jan admitted. “I seem to recall there was a collapse... but my memory of the event is not perfect, I admit.” 

“Do you plan to discuss Antediluvians with anyone else?” 

Now here was a question they could warm to. “Not publicly, no. I don’t think it’s wise to incite a panic. And I know so little, how can I be sure that is what I killed, or tried to kill? For all I know it was simply a very, very old Kindred.” 

“Indeed.” 

Jan’s life hung by a thread. They smiled at Netchurch before he turned away, left the room and went to consult in hushed tones in the hallway outside. Jan knew the problem. They could not be made to forget. Domination was often difficult in circumstances where the event spanned hours, or was of sufficient complexity and strong emotion. It was not like forgetting a single blurred glimpse of a Nosferatu ducking into an alleyway. Even the brain itself might second guess without intervention, at something so incredible.

Someone wanted Jan not to remember, but they might accept if Jan promised silence, instead. 

Netchurch returned in due course, and opened the restraints. “My apologies for the inconvenience.” 

“No apologies necessary,” Jan began, massaging their wrists unnecessarily. Fortitude ensured they would not easily lose a hand to prolonged captivity. 

“If you are found to be consorting with the Sabbat again, you will probably be executed. Likewise if you speak to anyone else about Manhattan or what you believe you saw there.” Netchurch continued.

“Yes, I imagined so.” Pieterzoon couldn’t keep the disappointment out of their voice. “I didn’t expect a medal.” 

“Between you and I, if your Sire was not Hardestadt the Elder...” 

And Jan wasn’t quite sure who was Hardestadt the Younger, at this point. The names were fake - only a succession of lineage, to allow a smooth translation of power when one inevitably was assassinated. Jan fancied themself possibly the winner of such a prestigious award, but thought also it wasn’t that likely. Hardestadt had many Childer. 

“I hope I don’t see you again.” Netchurch, in his own way, wished Jan well. 

“And yourself. Take care, Doctor.”


End file.
